Crawley says of G. She is like a great rosy apple,
refreshing and sweet and wholesome.
What is really depressing me is the thought that wherever I am
to-morrow night there will be no G. to say:
"Good-night, my dear. Sleep well."
And I shan't be able to drop my head over my bunk and reply:
"Good-night, my dear old G."
It will seem so odd and lonely without her.
The ship has stopped--we are to anchor here till daylight.
FLESHPOTS OF CALCUTTA
_Calcutta, Nov. 18_.
_In India_. I don't think I have quite realized myself or my
surroundings yet, but one thing I know. Boggley has been better than
his word, for we are not camping in a corner of the Maidan, but have a
decent roof to cover us.
But I shall go back to where I left off on Wednesday night.
We spent a hot, breathless night in the river. Towards morning I fell
asleep and dreamed that the ship was sinking in a quicksand and that
I, in trying to save myself, had stuck fast in the port-hole. I
wakened cold with fright, to find it was grey dawn and they were
getting up the anchor.
Of course we were up at an unearthly hour, all our belongings
carefully packed and labelled, ourselves clad in clean white dresses
and topis to face the burning, shining face of India. There was little
to see and nothing to do, and we walked about getting hungrier and
hungrier, and yet when breakfast-time did come we found we were too
excited to eat.
When we got into the dock we saw all the people who had come to meet
us penned like sheep into enclosures, and we leaned over the side
trying to make out the faces of friends.
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